


Amalgamated: Pretty Pain

by TheMistressMuse



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: #angst, #dubiousconsent, #erotica, #firstperson, #lolita, #lossandpain, #mindgames, #residentevil, #sex, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-08 07:53:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12860127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMistressMuse/pseuds/TheMistressMuse
Summary: In pain. In pleasure. In awe. They flock and feel and find him. He rules. He riots around them. He joins them. They are bonded. They are amalgamated.





	1. Chapter 1

-Amalgamated –

Inverted – How can I be here? What else can he do to me that hasn't been…forced on me?

I dangle, forsaken, bound above a floor that winks cold and sterile, medicinal, like a hospital…like a morgue. A drain waits for my blood. He'll bleed me…we both know it. It won't be the first time…it won't be the last.

Averted – my eyes won't watch him come again. How can they? How can they see…his perverse delight? His…hunger? The want of him is in my blood, on the floor, in his eyes…his eyes…enthrall.

His mouth forms words, beautifully, perfectly, punishingly. He whispers with a careless…hunger. Doesn't he understand that I starve? When will he feed…my beast?

Perverted – I must be. I must be…to crave him. To need him. He touches my belly. He touches and smiles. Cold. The bonds are cold. He is cold. He is arctic. His eyes burn. I hate him. I die for him.

The enemy is what he is. The Antichrist. He infects and rejects the truth of the human condition. He bleeds sanity from the bones of honor. He rapes the falsity of mortality from you while you cry, while you beg, while you offer more and more…and shudder…desperate.

He offers me the taste of him. His mouth. It tempts. It taunts. I crane toward it, weeping. Can't he see me weeping? I offer the cavern of my empty orifice for him to fill. His voice, laughing, "What do you want…Claire?"

I was once. I must have been. I'm not anymore. I'm his. I'm just…gone. I cried when he took me. I tried. I lied when he touched me.

A girl. A captive. Chris? Are you coming?

I'm coming. I'm coming…for him. I can't stop. I ache.

He doesn't even bind me anymore…unless I beg. And I do, pathetically, purposely, grotesquely. My face runs with tears, I tremble…release me, I bellow, so I can touch you…he defers…he declines. He denies.

He sits, patiently, a papa that waits for his dark daughter to sit on his lap. "Sit here…Claire." And I do. I sit on his lap. He strokes my satiny thigh while I quiver.

"Should I release you?"

I'm weeping, softly…sadly…lost. "Please…no." I murmur. He laughs.

I lift my skirt. I am bare beneath, smooth. As he likes me to be. As he instructs. I straddle him. He waits, watching. He is so amused. He is bored. I bore him. It hurts me.

"Now, be quick."

Chris, are you coming?

I'm drowning.

His enemy waits. He waits for me to strike. He waits for me to mount him. I slip my grip around his veiny, throbbing, frightening dick. I can't. I won't. I need.

How did he find me? How did he keep me? When I was so young…when I was so stupid…a girl…a girl that adored him. Captain….Wesker. No more Captain..now only…nemesis.

I'm dry. It hurts. He invades my body with his slick cock head. It's wide and encompassing.

Inserted – I begin to tremble. I keen. It hurts. It stretches my sore opening and pushes into the confines of my body. Virginal. Always. I sink down and take it all.

He grunts, delighted. Red eyes. He pulses inside my aching body. His balls brush my desperate ass. Tickling. Teasing. I moan. I please him. And he rewards me with a kiss.

Undone.

Converted – I let him touch me two days after I met him. He was my brother's boss. His superior. His boss. He came to see my brother at home. No Chris. Just Claire. Just…the baby.

The kitchen. The low lighting. I dropped a glass. I cut my hand. He knelt. He picked up the pieces and rose. He rinsed my fingers…he turned his head. Girl. Crush. Craving. I closed my eyes.

He kissed me.

Alerted – Girl. Boss. Virgin. "Can I touch you, Claire?" That voice. Smooth and cultured. I nodded. He lifted my dress. He took my panties. My brother could come in at any moment. I feared. I wanted. He touched me.

Fingers pressing into my damp cunt. Unprepared. Unknowing. Untested. I gasped. He thrust. Not gentle. Taking. He takes. The nemesis…the tyrant…he takes. He took. And his fingers curled, curled, thrusting, pushing.

Perverted – I grabbed. I gasped. "Oh, it burns…Captain." He liked that. He liked the title. He liked it. I said it again. He reached my hymen…amused. His face…delighted. His fingers probed it, pushing, testing. It hurt. I gasped, musical. He laughed…dark.

Concerted – Halloween. All Hallows Eve. The doorbell rang. Kids for candy. Claire in her costume. Pretty princess…shiny dress. A child? A teenage girl. Seventeen. Lolita.

No kids. Captain…Wesker. "May I come…in, Claire?" Come in Claire. I shivered. I let him in.

Where are you, Chris? He wasn't there. Working. Always working. To take care of the baby he was raising. His sister. The…whore. That craved his boss.

Asserted – Strong. He is. Handsome and dashing and cruel. He threw up my dress. He sat on the couch. I bunched it around my waist. "Now, Claire."

Virginal. Chaste. I climbed on him. I quivered. His fingers parted the lips of my body to play there. Stroking. Stroking. Sliding. Gasping and groaning, I arched. "Put me in you…now."

Wait. Virgin. I didn't. I feared. I hungered. I lifted and angled. I hesitated. Unsure. Unknowing. Afraid.

He gripped my hips…yanked. Impaled. Infected. I screamed. It hurts. I bleed. He laughed. I loved him. Inside my body. The broken barrier of my tender youth. The overly stretched walls of my body. It aches. It throbs. He moves. He moved. Now, I ride. Then, I quivered.

Alerted – He lifted me, brought me down. I cried out, hurting. I pushed on his shoulders. He didn't stop. "Don't! It hurts!" He shifted his hand and stroked me. Soft. Kitten soft. He stroked my clit with his knowing fingers. Arrogant. His face was judging. I couldn't see his eyes. Sunglasses. Why didn't he ever take them off?

He forced my body to fuck him. Fast. Faster. It hurt. I rejected. He flicked, I retracted. I started moving, rolling. He wouldn't stop stroking me. It burned, it throbbed. I gasped. He kept on stroking while I felt my belly tighten, the walls of my body milking him. Milking. Sucking. Slapping. The wet squelch of juices on his lap. "Come." And I did. My body burst, so wet, spilling over his eager lap. I gasp, bouncing, flushing. I worry that I might have urinated. But it's just excitement. It's just come. It's just…need.

Subverted – He began to cultivate me. He would find me. He would beckon. I went. I wanted. In the park. In a cab. In my bedroom, while my brother slept one room away. Always I denied. Always I accepted. Always…I yearned. "Open your legs." I would. I did. He mounted me. Like a stallion. Covered like a broodmare. His fingers in my mouth. His balls slapping my eager ass. UNDONE.

Always, he'd push me over the edge. I'd cry, ashamed. Silly girl. Baby. And he'd whisper in my ear. "May I come in…Claire?" And I'd nod, dying for him. And he'd come, filling me up with his scalding seed. Dribbling. Nibbling. Dripping. Possessed.

Perverted – I ride him now. Unchallenged. So bored, he sighs. My ass slaps his thighs. He waits, watching me with eyes like fire. Inhuman. Insane. Incredible. "Fuck me harder…Claire." I do. I wetly take. I try. I weep. I want to please him. I want to kill him. Enemy. Tyrant. Nemesis.

Are you coming, Chris? I think it's too late.

I come for him. I come on him. I gasp, soaking him. He grunts, grinding in my body. I milk him, wetly, deeply. My eager little cunt begs for him. He grabs my hips now, excited by my weeping and gasping. I crave it. I'm perfectly groomed. I'm his plaything. I'm his instrument. He's my muse.

Captain...my Captain. He fucks me now. Inhuman. Impossibly hard, too hard, I bleed. I need. I ache. "May I come in…Claire?" I nod, I weep. I want. I grip his slick black battlesuit. I grunt. He hits my cervix with each brutal thrust. He thunders. He waits.

I beg. "Please…please."

He laughs.

Perverted –My breasts bounce. His hands torture. He tugs and bites and laves them. Tender, they ache. I moan. He strokes me. He strokes me while I feel him crush into the walls of my being and ram the slickness of his cock against the end of my body. He fucks. He fondles. I forget he's…the enemy.

Where are you Chris? You've left me to die here…inverted.

And his nemesis tongues my mouth while he fills me full of his seed.


	2. Chapter 2

-Amalgamated –

No Desperate Escape –

Why does he think it matters if I like him? He controls me. He lingers, plague like, outside my conscious mind, inside my conscience…upside my soul. He never asks me to submit. He never questions. He waits.

I lay beneath him –placid. He touches me with a scientists mindless inspection. He doesn't linger on my breasts. He doesn't bother with my cunt. He probes my belly, eyebrows lifted, "When did you conceive, Jill?"

How does he know?

My belly is flat and taut. There's no evidence there of conception. It was brief. It was years ago. It was before I had become an immortal warrior beside a god. Chris…I can't see your face anymore. I close my eyes and try. I try. He isn't there. I can almost hear his voice.

Tubal pregnancy. Evacuation was the only answer. Neither of us prepared for it. Neither of us aware of it. Just there and gone. A fleeting thought. A lost dream. An idea without merit. It doesn't even matter now.

I'm not longer the girl that carried that baby. I'm no longer Jill Valentine.

I'm the P30. I'm the first. I won't be the last. He's winning. He's ruling. He'll over take it all and make more of me. If I can just…survive. I might be able to escape him.

I answer, empty now, "In Raccoon City. 97. Before the Mansion."

"Before the fall?" He smirks. That smirk. It grates in my bones.

"Yes."

"Did you grieve?"

"No. I'm no mother."

He tauntingly studies me. It's not the answer he wants. He wants the truth. He doesn't like the lies. He suspects the P30 has worn off. He's right.

I wait, hoping he won't push another dose on me.

He says, "It was mine?"

And we're both aware of that. We both know it might have been. We both know it might have been Chris'. I look into those laughing eyes. Red and reptile. Cold. Like a snake. He's a snake. A snake in the garden of Eden.

"It might have been."

He studies me. "Redfield – did he know? Did he know that I was in your bed? Did he know you came to mine and begged?"

Chris wouldn't understand. He'd never understand. He'd never understand that I'd gone to the office to gather my things. He'd never understand that I'd been there when the office door opened and Wesker had come out.

Shirtless, unwrapping his hands. He'd been training. Sweaty, sleek, he'd looked at me.

I'd looked. You looked at him. He was something cold and uninterested. He didn't touch. He didn't look back. He just…existed.

I was wearing boots and a denim skirt, a tube top in blue. Raccoon City chic. He wore loose fitting black sweats. Bare feet. His feet were thin and eloquent. His chest was smooth, hairless, and honed. His eyes were arctic. Blue, blue, and cruelly assessing.

"It's late, Jill." His voice had sounded bored, "Why are you here?"

I'd been holding my pocketbook. I set it down on the desk. I'd had four drinks out with friends. I was loose lipped and aching. Chris was playing hard to get. He'd flirted and gone home. I was confused. I was a little drunk.

I was a little desperate.

And I'd said, "I need you to evaluate me, sir. I'm still waiting."

We'd gone into his office. We'd discussed my performance. Professional. He'd been polite. He'd been almost cool.

He'd walked me to my car like a gentlemen.

Nothing overt. Nothing sexual. The scientist that studied me.

I'd stood beside my car door and said, "I'd like to evaluate you too, sir. If you've time."

That face. He'd known. He was astute. Could he smell me?

The back seat of my car. The smell of sweat and leather. He'd watched me, waiting, while I'd pulled off my panties. I'd hiked up my denim skirt. I'd splayed my legs open to show him.

No one was naked. Not that time. He'd lowered his pants and pushed into my eager body. I'd grabbed the door behind me and held on. The cramped car, the scent of patchouli from my air freshener. He didn't ask about protection. I didn't offer. He fucked me hard, my boots knocking on his ass while he mounted me.

He'd angled my hips, watched my face, assessing. I'd grunted when he'd found the right spot. Big. I could barely hold all of him in me. He couldn't fit in me completely at that angle. I was sopping wet around his invading cock.

He held my throat in one pale hand and my wrists in the other. Holding me down. I'd liked that. I'd started whining in my throat like a needy thing. I was a needy thing, desperate and hungry. Fucking my boss in my old Chevy Nova. Fucking my boss while he rode me bareback.

I grunted as he forced himself into my eager heat completely. It hurt. I liked that. I gasped, "Harder, sir. Harder."

And the sir excited him. The respect of it. He'd enjoyed the acknowledgement of his command. I'd laughed darkly, "Make me come for you."

And his face hadn't liked that. He didn't like being commanded.

His thrusting was brutal. He obliterated. He'd punished me for being brazen. I'd bucked. I'd fucked back on his cramming cock inside my sopping cunt as if he'd begged me to. The world had spun with liquor. The world had spun with Wesker.

I'd cried out, hands pushing against him. He'd let me grab him. He'd let me mark him. His back. I'd put my nails on him and raked them down his flawless skin. I'd bled him. And he'd laughed. And then I'd grabbed his throat and squeezed.

His fucking increased. He'd started firing into me like a canon. I took each brutal, pulsing inch that ripped and rammed and tortured with want. I'd demanded, "More!" And he'd complied. My hands had tightened on his throat.

He'd released a single grunt of pain and I was there. I came, squeaking like a mouse, bouncing beneath his brutal thrusting. Thrusting. Thrusting. I'd felt him tighten. I'd gasped and felt him.

And he'd come inside of me in a scalding wave.

Tubal pregnancy. His? A week later Chris had stopped playing hard to get. We'd finally made love. Sweet. Unassuming. Gentle. A contradiction. No more or less than a brutal fucking by my boss.

I'd gone to work to see him with bruises around his lower throat. Barely covered by his uniform collar. I'd choked my boss and let him fuck me bareback. I'd seduced my coworker and done the same. Chris and I had coupled fast and sweet in his living room. He'd been so desperate and I so excited. It had been like two teenagers and their first time. He'd come in me before he'd been able to stop. It was ok, I'd thought, I was on the pill.

Apparently the pill was bullshit. Tubal pregnancy.

Chris didn't like to be hurt. He didn't like pain. He didn't like…raking. He didn't like ….taking.

I'd gone two weeks and shown up on my bosses doorstep. He'd answered the door in his uniform. Eyebrows lifted. "Jill?"

"I need it, sir. I need it."

I lay now on the table remembering his touch. He'd turned me against the sofa. I'd worn nothing but a trench coat. So slutty . So needy. I didn't care. I needed it.

Like a horse, ridden. He'd ridden me. I'd let him mark me again. Fill me with his come. I'd turned over my back to open my thighs and take him. He'd let me choke him. I was lost.

There was no escape for me.

He leans over me now, watching my eyes. "What would he say if he knew you were mine before? Did you take me out that window to save Chris, Jill? Or to save…me?"

Jill Valentine had known the answer to that.

There is no Jill Valentine here.

There is only P30…and P30 belongs to Albert Wesker.

I look into his reptilian eyes and he waits, grinning.

I spread my legs for him. We both know it's not the P30. We both know it's me. He leans over me and I take his throat in my hands. "I need it, sir. I need it."

Do I mean the P30?

Or do I mean him?

I'm not sure I'll ever know the answer as he climbs atop my body…and injects me.


	3. Chapter 3

-Amalgamated –

The G-Virus

The good girl virus. The good girl. I am that. Always that: the GOOD girl. Like a dog. Like a dog waiting to be petted. Like a dog to be praised for performing.

Being good is a virus.

I don't want to be good anymore.

Good girl…gone bad.

Rainy and cold. Chilly. I'm chilly in the big room with the rows of chairs.

I watch him watch me. What do they call him? They call him Captain or something. Captain Redfield? A stupid name. He was a boy in Raccoon City. I was a child. He's not a boy now. And I'm not a good girl. Not anymore.

The lecture is long and borrowing. It bores even as it leaves me shifting in my seat.

He lectures well though. The Captain. He lectures about the Captain he'd once served that turned evil. He talks about Wesker. Albert Wesker. The father of the subject I've brought home for testing.

Testing. I remember the needles and the pain. I remember the horror of it. The sound of voices in dark rooms. Fingers and things in my body and skin and blood. Poking and prodding and taking. Be a good girl, Sherry, and it won't hurt.

Lies.

LIARS.

It all hurts.

And they don't care if you're good.

I don't want to be good anymore.

I watch his mouth. I watch his face. Chris Redfield. Former S.T.A.R.S. B.S.A.A. Captain. Promoted for a job well done. Promoted within his own organization. Why not just make yourself a Captain to start with?

He's not a good boy. His reputation is bad. He's rude and volatile and doesn't like to follow rules. The rules say we shouldn't touch each other.

I'm tired of the rules.

He's twice as old as me…at least. Maybe more. It doesn't matter.

The lecture ends. The faces and voices float around me. He keeps looking at me while he shakes hands and bids farewell to the other people who'd stayed to listen.

He turns to me, brow lifted. "Sherry…did you need something?"

I need to be bad.

Doesn't he know that?

I rise. I move down the stairs toward the desk where he gathers papers. A big man. All muscle. He wears the uniform for the organization he serves well on his big frame. A good girl would thank him for the lecture and go on her way.

I want to be a bad girl and fuck Chris Redfield.

I say, "I met Albert Wesker once when he came to see my father."

Chris turns that face to me. All jaw and stubbled growth. Not handsome. Not exactly. I glance at the still shot of Albert Wesker on the wall behind him where the projector still shines. Handsome. The S.T.A.R.S. Captain had been handsome. Chris Redfield wasn't nearly as handsome.

What was the word here? Masculine. The face was all masculine. Virile. And he doesn't smile. Ever. He's a dry and humorless man. Hard. And hardened. Aren't we all in a way?

Chris answers, "He leave an impression?"

I glance again at Albert Wesker. I shrug one delicate shoulder. "He left something. He gave me the creeps."  
He didn't exactly. He excited me, even then. And scared me. A girl that craved being bad even before she'd been caged like a bird and left to rot with fantasy.

Fantasy. I court the power of it now with Chris Redfield.

Chris nods a little, "He was known to. Did you need something?"

I judge his face as he looks at me. I shift and watch the slide of his eyes. They drop to the press of cleavage in camisole. I feel that in my belly. Bad boy indeed.

So I do us both a favor and say, "I need a ride."

He eyes me a little over the folder in his hands. He could say no. We both know it. I could take a cab. We both know that too.

The good girl in me thinks I should take the cab. The bad girl in me knows I won't.

I fuck Chris Redfield on the desk with Albert Wesker watching us from the wall.

He fucks like he lectures: methodical and precise. He gives me the ride I asked for.

He isn't the first man to make me a bad girl. I've been letting men use me for as long as I can remember. Is it the little girl desperately seeking her daddy's love? Am I finding that love with men old enough to be my father?

Freud is somewhere laughing.

I'm textbook.

I'm just a girl craving what I can't have.

It started with Leon Kennedy. The first guy to use me when I wouldn't let up. I'd chased him around like a Lolita in a tiny bathing suit. Sixteen and sweet and seducing with bouncy breasts and innocence.

But I'd never been innocent. Didn't they know that? I was cloistered, sure, but never innocent. I'd grown up surrounded by death and lies. My innocence was long gone before I'd ever fled Raccoon City.

Freed from my compound to visit Claire. She'd left us alone to take a call for work.

I'd tracked the former rookie cop around the pool and finally cornered him in the pool house. He'd been unprepared for it. Kinda endearingly sweet about trying to refute my advances.

He'd held out pretty well until I'd put his hand in my panties. Then? He'd been a man.

I'd lost my virginity to him in that pool house. It was a sweaty grapple in the bathroom. A good girl getting screwed against the wall like a whore. A good girl gone bad while her Daddy judged her somewhere in the beyond.

A good girl who only chased men she couldn't have.

My Daddy have been the first man to screw me after all. He'd made me a monster. Leon Kennedy made me a woman in that pool house. We never told Claire.

How could he? A man his age nailing a sixteen year old girl. He was ashamed. He was horrified.

It wasn't the last time it happened.

He was still a man.

It happened three more times over the next four years. A good girl with a bad habit.

The good girl that fucks Raccoon City survivors.

I fuck Chris Redfield while Albert Wesker watches. Was he watching while I fucked his son as well? His son fucked like a nervous boy.

All grabbing hands and grunting.

The girl that fucked the man she'd been sent in to extract to safety.

The girl that fucks the wrong guys.

The G-Virus. Maybe it makes me insane for it. Maybe it makes me a whore for it.

Unlikely. Fucking is the only way I feel anything anymore. I'm dead inside. I know that. There's nothing left in the world worth saving. The only thing I feel now is the need to burn out the emptiness.

I fill the emptiness with Chris Redfield.

I fill it with chasing the wrong men. I fill it with sex.

Clearly I'm still chasing my father's love.

I glance up at Albert Wesker's face while Chris Redfield forces my body to the peak of orgasm. The raw and wet squelch of his ramming into my body punctuates the silence of the room. I scream, I cum, I curse…and I know I'll never move out of the shadow of that face that watches us. It's been watching me get fucked from the moment I was born.

The architect of my misfortune. The mastermind of my demise.

He never fucked me.

And yet he's done nothing but fuck me every minute of every day.

I let Chris Redfield cum inside my body. He grunts and fills me up. It doesn't matter. I'm damaged goods anyway. The good girl gone bad.

The G-Virus won't let me conceive. I know this. I've always known.

My father stole my life. Albert Wesker stole my life. Fucked.

The girl that gets fucked by the Raccoon City dead.

I stare up at his face as I feel his greatest enemy spurt hot and wet against my cervix. Chris Redfield grinds himself deep in my body as I buck and groan and cum…watching Albert Wesker look down on us from that wall above…empty.

We're the same, Al, I think as I scream out and take the pumping cock between my legs, we've both been fucked by Chris Redfield.

He looks down on me and leaves me dead inside.


End file.
